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Twenty minutes would take me into the heart of it. And if I
chose I could be as struggling, as wretched, as much imbued with
wickedness and vanity as anybody. I could gamble on the stock
exchange, or play the muddy game of politics, or hawk my precious
title for sale among the young women of London society. My Aunt
Jessica once told me that London was at my feet. I am quite
content that it should stay there. I have much the same nervous
dread of it as I have of an angry sea breaking in surf on the
shingle. If I ventured out in it I should be tossed hither and
thither and broken on the rocks, and I should perish. I prefer
to stand aloof and watch. If I had a little more of daring in my
nature I might achieve something. I am afraid I am but a waster
in the world's factory; but kind Fate, instead of pitching me on
the rubbish-heap, has preserved me, perhaps has set me under a
glass case, in her own museum, as a curiosity. Well, I am happy
in my shelter.
I was interrupted in my writing by the entrance of my cook and
housekeeper, Antoinette.


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